


the last good thing about this part of town

by tsunderestorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Exes, Infidelity, M/M, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Glenn doesn't expect Miklan to be at their ten-year high school reunion.But he is.
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius/Miklan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	the last good thing about this part of town

**Author's Note:**

> Glenn cheats on his wife. Please take a pass on this if depictions of infidelity upset you.
> 
> with that said, ass slut glenn fraldarius agenda. please don't take this too seriously.

Miklan Gautier blows back into town like an unexpected storm, stirring up dust and kicking it into everyone’s face. He’s practically a legend, the disgraced black sheep, and Glenn’s heard rumors of his misdeeds from vandalism to assault to murder. People talk, and he’s heard it all: Miklan had been the one who spray-painted the obscene images on the south wall of their private academy the year they had graduated, Miklan had stolen and tried to pawn the prized Gautier family heirloom, Miklan had been the suspect in a murder and had to skip town or else he’d end up in prison.

(There’s probably some validity to the family heirloom accusation, actually.)

Whether it’s heresay or not, Miklan had still left town the day he’d turned eighteen with the money that had been left to him by grandparents and uncles (money his father hadn’t been able to legally touch) and his abrupt disappearance had certainly led to a rather unceremonious end to… whatever they’d had. 

But now he’s back. 

Glenn hears he’s in town secondhand, from Holst fucking Goneril ( _Gonorrhea,_ Miklan had called him in high school, mocking and cruel and _never_ failing to get a laugh out of Glenn) of all people. Old Miklan Gautier is back, he says to him one night over post-workday drinks, better tell his wife she needs to watch her husband. Glenn tells him to fuck off - Holst has, after all, always had a bad habit of minding too much of everyone else’s business and not enough of his own. So what if the man he’d given it up for even before all of the others was back? So what if the scarred mark on his hip from his brief stint as an Edgy Teen burned again, like a raw, fresh wound? 

It’s not like they’ll have an excuse to see one another, not unless they seek each other out at the upcoming reunion. Miklan had flown far enough under the radar for long enough to cash out his trust fund, but Glenn knows from Sylvain that the family, the ever-oppressive, omnipotent _Family_ doesn’t speak to him anymore. He won’t run into him, there’s no way… Glenn and Miklan don’t run in the same social circles. 

So it feels like whiplash, leaving the Fraldarius firm’s office and seeing Miklan Gautier walk out of the convenience store across the street. He’s painted into the scene, framed against a backdrop of neon advertisements and the unclean glass of the storefront. There’s an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips and he has one huge, rough hand sheltering the flame from the same Zippo he’d had ten years ago against the midday breeze. How does one react, honestly, when your teenage boyfriend shows back up in town looking like a whole-ass meal? How does one cope, when every late-night, way-past-curfew hookup plays through one’s mind like an NC-17 movie in the middle of the sidewalk? 

Miklan is wearing tight, acid-washed jeans that leave nothing to the imagination - the muscle of his huge thighs have the seams fraying to bursting and his bulge is practically threatening to break the zipper. He’s got a black leather jacket slung over his shoulder and a tight t-shirt that may have been charcoal gray about one hundred washes ago, and Glenn knows his scuffed leather boots are steel-toed. There’s a new scar ripping down his face, jagged as a chasm, and several new tattoos decorating his thick, hairy arms. A bastardized version of the pretentious Gautier family sigil bordering a haunted-looking skull has been inked into his forearm and a band of barbed wire snakes its way around his bulging bicep. The faded “PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT CONTENT” label tattooed on his neck is old, old enough that Glenn can remember the sight of it as he’d tucked his face into Miklan’s neck, nails raking down his back as Miklan fucked him open.

The cigarette lights and glows at the tip, a faint ember that flares hot, before he walks away, and Glenn can tell it’s been a while since he took it up the ass because his hole actually _clenches_ at the sight of him. He cancels the call he was getting ready to make. 

Honestly, in the fog that pads itself in, cotton-like, to the farthest reaches of his mind and memory, he’s not even sure if he remembers how to have an intelligent conversation.

It fades, but slowly. He goes to Starbucks, orders a blonde double shot on ice instead of his half-caff sugar free vanilla latte and drinks it in one sitting. The cold shocks him, makes the fog recede from his mind. Miklan is back in town, so what? It’s probably a coincidence, it’s not like he’ll be at the high school reunion… spending an evening in the company of the yuppy brats they went to school with is, doubtless, the opposite of Miklan Gautier’s idea of a good time. Even Glenn is only going because he wants to see how everyone’s fared, out of some sick sense of morbid curiosity that comes with thinking, _knowing_ you’re hotter and better than anyone else. Miklan’s never been the social type, even before Gautier, Sr. had written him out of the will. He’s here temporarily, he won’t be at the reunion, and then Glenn can go back to his perfect life. 

\--

Turns out, Miklan _is_ at their high school reunion, and when he says, “Glenn Fraldarius,” it’s in a slow, self-satisfied way, the sounds rolling off his tongue like he’s savoring it, indulging in it. The sound coils down Glenn’s spine and curls around the base of his cock, snakes beneath his balls and he swears he can feel it in his hole. Like a finger, prodding against the rim, like a tongue, licking inside. If he’d ever tried denying he still wanted to fuck Miklan Gautier, this would have been his undoing. 

He answers it with a false sweetness, deceptively saccharine: “Miklan Gautier… what a surprise.” 

Miklan leans against the bar and hands over a debit card to open a tab, gesturing at the chilled bottles of beer in the mini-fridges behind the counter before Glenn up and down and cracking a smile. It’s that crooked, dangerous one that showed uneven front teeth and sharp canines, makes his face look even harsher. As the bartender pops the cap on the long-neck bottle and slides it over, he rumbles, “Long time no see, pretty bitch.”

Two hours and forty-four minutes into their high school reunion, they’re finding a secluded table in the corner away from everyone else. Glenn’s done his time flitting around, pretending to like people that he once delighted in picking fights with and Miklan is on his second bottle of foamy, skunky Heineken. He’s got his eyes fixed on him, watching the way Glenn’s fingers wipe condensation off his glass of some pale ale he’d picked mindlessly off the menu. It’s an angry, flinty gaze that a weaker man might have withered under, but to Glenn it just feels something like a homecoming. It feels like wrapping up in a familiar blanket, feels like ducking his face into the collar of a sweaty high school boyfriend jacket. He feels nostalgic for a life he never really had, one where he didn’t have the expectations of an entire line of serious, stoic family heads expecting him to _make the right decisions._ It feels like something that doesn’t belong to him, and Glenn has always gotten everything he wants. 

“... so that’s where I’ve been. I work at my father's firm, which has done nothing but grow, seeing as we provide security to the Blaiddyds for every political event… I guess I’ve calmed down a lot. I haven’t fought anyone in years.” Glenn laughs, remembering how quick he was to pick fights in high school. 

Miklan looks unimpressed. Angry, even, evidenced by the accusation he nearly spits. “So, you did exactly what dear old Daddy wanted, huh? You went to _his_ college, got married to some chick who is just a _perfect_ match… oh, and let me guess: you did what’s expected and you pumped a baby or two into her. Isn’t that right? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Glenn can’t. Miklan is right - about all of it. He did go to Rodrigue’s alma mater, the same private institution every Fraldarius had gone to for generations… at least, every Fraldarius until Felix had defied it all and went to a community college two states over to be near Sylvain when he went for his art history Bachelor’s. He’s married to a beautiful woman who comes from the kind of “good family” people never shut up about, he has two kids - they’re eight and five, he loves them. It’s not their fault he’s miserable, and he’ll never let them know it. He’s perfect, the kind of son his father’s friends still commend Rodrigue on. 

“You aren’t,” he concedes, and Miklan scoffs. It’s hateful, and Glenn recoils from it as if the very air of his breath could scald like a burn. Miklan’s voice is gruff and grating as he says, “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His cold, cold glare and hateful sneer suddenly make Glenn feel small in a way no one has managed before but there’s something there, something behind that. A poorly concealed man behind the curtain, pulling the strings. It is something predatory, like a wild animal. Miklan is a hunting dog and Glenn is a fox, set loose to unmake each other. In the recesses of his mind, he remembers that Miklan is just as stunted as he is: pure shit at showing affection outside of lust, with an extra dash of resentment thrown in, for added flavor. 

Miklan is running thick fingers up and down the green-tinged glass of the bottle’s neck, thumb swiping over the opening shiny with spit and beer spilled from repetitive sips. Glenn isn’t stupid, and he sure as hell knows when something is an innuendo. With Miklan Gautier, a come-on _that_ blatant serves as both promise and threat, knows those fingers will be two knuckles deep inside his ass before the night is over. 

“Aren’t you tired of living your life for someone else?” Miklan asks as the bartender delivers Glenn’s latest order: another shot of some bizarre cucumber vodka. His fingers stop their torturous slide around the mouth of the bottle as he lifts it to drain what was the third round of Heineken and arching a brow at Glenn. He isn’t even bothering to hide the hunger, now, eyes roaming over Glenn in a way that makes him tingle. “Don’t you just wanna rebel, even a little?”

“Is that a challenge, Miklan Gautier?” Glenn asks, throwing back his shot of positively bitter booze. “Because you know how I feel about a challenge.”

Miklan sits back in his chair with the casual grace of someone who has won. The pose does wonders for his body - he’s gotten just a touch soft around the middle (all Gautiers do, from what Glenn has seen) but there’s still muscle there, but most of all his posture makes his arms look fantastic, biceps threatening to bust out of the arms of his faded t-shirt. It’s cut low, enough for Glenn to see his pecs and the russet hair coating his chest.

“I know you can’t resist them,” Miklan says, tipping back in his chair like a bored high schooler, legs spread, the imprint of his dick like a homing beacon to Glenn’s eyes. “So whaddaya say, pretty boy, need a little rough?”

Glenn is honest with himself for the first time in years as he answers, “Yes. God, _yes.”_

Three hours and fifty-seven minutes into the official start of their high school reunion, and they aren’t even _at_ their high school reunion any longer. They’re in Miklan’s room in the (conveniently attached) hotel and Miklan’s on the bed with his legs spread wide and then his hips lifted up and Glenn’s tugging his dick out of his pants, damn near drooling at the memory of its weight against his tongue. Here is the first one he ever sucked, the absolute monster of a cock that used to make his eyes water and jaw hurt, the reason he can deep-throat as easily as breathing. Here is Miklan looking down at him, eyes dark the way brick stains with rain, here is the thrum of his own pulse and the hitch in his own breath, watching Miklan drag a huge hand up his meaty cock as his own hardens in his pants.

“God, I will _never_ get tired of the sight of perfect Glenn Fraldarius on his knees,” Miklan gloats, hands brushing Glenn’s hair back from his face, helping him gather it into the ponytail he secures with a band tugged off of his wrist. “How many guys wanted your face between their thighs like this?”

Glenn hums his agreement, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he drinks in the smell of him and lets Miklan’s words twine through his mind. It’s not that the praise gets him going, it’s not as if he’s hungry for it. Why starve for what you feast on every day? More that it’s an affirmation of what he already knows - at twenty-eight, he’s still a three-course meal, expensive and luxurious, or maybe it’s the plain and simple truth that it’s from Miklan, his high school boyfriend who’d hated anything and everything about the high society that shunned him but loved its favorite golden boy. 

“Remember how me tying my hair up used to have you nearly Pavlov-trained to get hard?” Glenn teases, nuzzling against Miklan’s cock. His mouth is watering to taste him, but he stops to admire it because honestly? It’s a work of art: impossibly thick, flushed and leaking at the tip, vein throbbing along the underside. He’s let his hair here run as wild as the mullet on his head, unshaven and unkempt and thick, the scent of him heavy with every breath Glenn takes.

“I was a teenager,” Miklan grouses. Armor on, fists up, bristling in defense until Glenn unwinds his anger by leaning in and offering one swipe of his tongue over the slit. “The fuck was I supposed to do, watch you tie your hair up in the blowjob ponytail and _not_ pop a boner?” 

“No,” Glenn coos, the way one might praise a puppy, “that was _exactly_ what you were supposed to do.”

Miklan has so rarely heard that he’s done something he was supposed to do. Not from his parents, not from his brother, not from the therapists with their anger management classes or the teachers who gave up on him even before he gave up on himself. Not even from the few goddamn friends he has, but here is Glenn Fraldarius telling him almost exactly that, giving him the praise he’s always wanted with his words, his lips, his tongue, with just enough teeth. Glenn’s lips look pretty stretched around him and his throat looks obscene with his dick halfway down it, the skin of his neck pampered soft when Miklan runs his fingers over it. Glenn is so _finely honed_ , corded muscle from his sword work and dance steps, but beneath it all he’s still a foot shorter and a goddamn substantial amount more petite and he’s always had a thing for the fact that he can _see_ how much too big his dick is for Glenn.

“Just like that,” Miklan groans as Glenn’s hand works it’s way up his thigh and rolls his balls in a practiced palm. “Fuck, yes, suck like that. God _damn_ , you give head like this and I’ll never let you go.”

 _And I’ll never let you go._ Honestly, Miklan might say something else before he shoots his load down his throat but it’s lost on Glenn, lost when he’s riding a tidal wave high buoyed by lust and Miklan’s two-packs-a-day voice talking him through sucking him off. It’s funny, how any doubts he’d had since doing everything as expected had made him wonder if he’d never truly grown out of his secret hatred for being told what to do.

Turns out he’s fine being controlled, _owned_ , even, just needed someone demanding a different brand of obedience.

Four hours, twenty-six minutes, and one _very_ extensive blowjob into their high school reunion has Glenn texting his wife to tell her that he’s had just a few too many drinks with an old friend and he’ll have to wait it out. Sober up. For safety, of course, because his own state of sobriety is his primary concern when Miklan is hooking two fingers in his hole and pulling him, stretching him, telling him he’s going to fuck his pretty pink hole all open. He’s two knuckles in (told you) when Glenn really feels it, when the euphoria of fingers pressed against his sweet, sensitive spot really hits his brain in an explosion of sensation, when the intrusion of Miklan’s rough, slicked up fingers goes from discomfort to pleasure.

The lube they’d bought at that tacky little corner store is cheap, but it gets the job done. Miklan works at him for what feels like an eternity, working him open until Glenn is face down in the pillows and really mewling for it, “ _like a goddamn cat in heat, Fraldarius_ ,” until he’s pretty sure he’ll come just from getting his ass fingered. It doesn’t seem so bad, all things considered - after all, Glenn remembers Miklan’s cock, remembers what an endeavor it was just to _take it_ , and although he’s hungry for the first good filling he’s had in years he’s goddamn grateful that Miklan is taking his time. It’s not like before, when they were young and dumb and in too much of a hurry to make it good, now they’re ten years out from their last hookup and they both know they’ll see stars when they really connect where it counts. 

“I don’t have condoms,” Miklan growls as he tugs Glenn’s ass up in the air and presses a rough palm flat between his shoulder blades, pushing him into a damn fine position to get fucked hard and deep. Doggy style, like a bitch. “Didn’t exactly know I’d be getting laid at our high school reunion,” he reasons, cock landing with a dull slap against Glenn’s ass. 

“Doesn't matter,” Glenn huffs as he rocks back against Miklan’s cock, letting it slide up the cleft of his ass to leave sticky drops of precome on his lower back. Glenn has these dimples - low on his back, just above his ass, that have always driven Miklan wild, have always called out to his hands like a siren to a sailor and years later, it’s this way still. He presses his thumbs into the subtle indents, watches his fat cock part Glenn’s cheeks, feels the slack, slight pull of the hole he’s been working at clutch at his cockhead like the lewdest of kisses. 

“Want it raw,” Glenn pants, looking back at him with that fuck-me-like-only-you-can look on his face: brow quirked in incredulity, half-sneer curling his lip even when the pupils of his icy blue eyes are blown wide and hazy like he’s already been fucked half stupid.

Miklan doesn’t say anything. No direct response, just grabs a greedy handful of Glenn’s ass and spreads him as best he can, starts to work the head of his cock inside. He’s stretched, and he’s ready, and he’s sure as hell willing but it’s still such a tight fit and Glenn’s sounds are broken and beautiful (and that’s not a word Miklan uses, for the record) as his hole stretches to take him. 

Miklan doesn’t say anything, in fact, until he’s fucked a few thrusts into him, sunk in balls-deep and Glenn’s thighs are shaking with the effort of it, cock torturously hard and neglected between his legs. Their balls bump together and then it’s just, “ _fuck,_ bitch, _shit,_ ” which in Miklan-speak might as well mean just as much as an “I love you”.

Glenn pants, “fuck me, big daddy,” and Miklan chokes on a half-laugh, half-moan, thumb rubbing a line along the seam of their connection, the point where throbbing cock meets ass, and pulls back enough to _almost_ slip out just to watch Glenn’s hole stretch again. Glenn tosses a glance over his shoulder before Miklan slams his hips forward, fills him too much and too quick and _god,_ fucking perfect. 

Glenn doesn’t even have to touch his dick. That’s how sad this whole thing is, how much he’d missed getting his ass filled. Just the weight of Miklan’s absurdly huge body above him, the thickness of the cock inside him, the wall Miklan’s big, hairy balls slap against his own is so much, too much, and when the blunt head of Miklan’s cock hits his insides just right he comes _hard,_ come splattering the starchy hotel sheets as well as his too-hot skin.

Miklan keeps fucking into him for what feels like an eternity, fucks until the sounds Glenn’s ass and mouth are making are almost identical - wet and obscene. The squelch of the lube in his ass the drool he’ll deny allowing to drip from his lips seem like music to Miklan’s ears because Glenn can practically _hear_ the triumphant grin in the way Miklan says “huh”, like _interesting_ , like _know you’ve always been an ass slut_ , like _I knew no one could do it like me_. It’s almost cruel, and Glenn thinks that maybe this is what he wants. To be used, to be treated carelessly after too many years of being everyone’s piece of perfection, to be debased in a way only someone who hates him as much as he’s attracted to him can manage. 

Miklan fucks him shallow until Glenn almost tells him to stop, until Glenn comes again, dry, from the pressure in all the right places, until it’s just a shade off painful, though he isn’t sure what side. His body feels tight and hot and Miklan grips his hips hard enough to bruise when he blows his load deep inside. He can feel it dribbling out of him, the bizarre mix of come and lube that trickles down his balls and makes him shiver. He feels like he’s absolutely gushing with it when Miklan pulls out, feels fucked open and used, empty and full all at once and everything he’s been missing.

Miklan places his thumb against Glenn’s hole, glides it down through the drying mix of lube and his own spend to press against his taint, makes his hips jerk as he whimpers. “Easy bitch,” he teases, and Glenn absolutely _purrs_ after that. The Fraldarius boys are all fucking cats, he swears, slinky and quick, just as likely to bite you as to lick your hand. As much as he’d love to drag Glenn into his arms, the post-nut clarity is setting in and there’s an inconvenient band around the ring finger of Glenn’s hand still fisted in the sheets. 

It’s not that Miklan feels guilty. No, it’s not that. He’s stopped trying to be nice. Why be anything other than what everyone expects you to be? A real monster with a violent streak and no care for others. Right now he just feels pissed, just absolutely fucking furious that Glenn Fraldarius is back in bed with him and he can’t call him _his_ (because nothing ever really is), that he had a toy dangled in front of him that he can’t keep, that his chest feels too tight and he thinks he never stopped carrying a torch for the older, hotter, _better_ Fraldarius brother.

Four hours, forty-three minutes and one deep, earth-shattering prostate orgasm later, Glenn’s rolling over to grab his phone from the bedside table and text his wife that she shouldn’t wait up. It’s late, he’ll just stay at his old friend’s hotel. 

(Which he is - what he’s neglecting to mention, of course, is that said _old friend_ is grabbing a rag to wipe himself clean of come and lube and sweat and tossing its match to Glenn to do the same.)

It’s a friend he’s known since childhood, after all - he’ll be fine. He’s got a couch in the room, Glenn will crash on it. 

There is, in fact, a couch in the room. It’s a fold-out kind, a sleeper sofa, the kind that lives exclusively in hotel chains and middle-class basements. Glenn doesn’t crash on it. Instead, he crashes into Miklan’s embrace like a homecoming, into beefy arms and huge, calloused hands, into touches that will no doubt bruise his flawless skin and leave him aching even more than the workouts he diligently plans and executes as a series of escapes from the monotony he’s let himself believe he’s content with. 

Miklan has always been cuddly, and ten years haven’t changed that. It’s always something Glenn has kind of liked, even as he’s teased him mercilessly for it - the fact that Miklan, got threatened with disinheritance ten times before the age of eighteen Miklan, spent time in juvenile hall Miklan, never the one to come off worse in a fight Miklan, wants to snuggle up after sex. The gravity of it all hits him when the post-coital high dissipates like a candle’s flame under forceful breath, as if it ever stood a chance of staying. 

“Fuck,” Glenn says when Miklan curls against him, heavy arm across his midsection, and then “ _fuck_ ,” when Miklan’s cock, soft now but still obscenely big, rests against his hip. He reiterates, “I missed that.”

Miklan grunts and scoots in closer, nudging his thigh under Glenn’s leg so Glenn has to lay half on him. 

“I cannot believe we... wow. I really am an entitled prick, aren’t I?” Glenn asks, and then laughs. The whole thing is so absurd. Glenn Fraldarius, having an affair. Their social circle will melt down like a nuclear disaster because he wanted _dick_. “We really shouldn't have…”

He lays a hand on his brow to shield his eyes from the accusatory glare of the suite’s bathroom lights. “Don’t,” Miklan says, face pressed into the crook of Glenn’s neck. His hair is an unkempt mullet and his stubble is grating against tender skin but Glenn decides that he likes it. What he likes less, though, are Miklan’s next words, “Just let me have this,” spoken in the quiet, sincere way that someone can manage only after really good sex. It’s raw, it’s wholly and entirely honest, and Glenn feels all at once less guilt for the conflict churning into a storm within his heart and mind and more guilt for the fact that he’d never tried to reach out to Miklan in the ten years since.

Miklan is snoring by the time Glenn thinks of speaking again, which, by the way, is a disgusting habit. It doesn’t help that his breath smells like Heineken and jizz traded from Glenn’s mouth to his. It doesn’t help that he’s sweaty and dirty despite the quick post-sex wipe down but there’s something nostalgic about it, something that shakes Glenn right down to his core. Something that reminds him of being young and carefree. And horny. Very horny.

 _Aren’t you tired of living your life for someone else,_ Miklan had asked, and at the time it had sounded like nothing but sex talk, an invitation to do what he’d been contemplating anyway without the mess of determining sexual compatibility with someone he didn’t already know. Now, with his cheek to Miklan’s hairy chest, he wonders if it was more than that.

If maybe something needs to change. If selfish Glenn, who’d matured into honorable and obedient Glenn, should take the reins again. Maybe he can have a mid-life crisis at the tender age of… not even thirty. 

Or maybe, he can just deal with it in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> (Miklan voice) aren't you tired of being nice? don't you just wanna go ape shit?
> 
> anyways, I am [tsunderestorm](twitter.com/tsunderestorm) on twitter. thanks for reading!


End file.
